


The Holly and the Ivy (Remix)

by IshtarsDream



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 06:39:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4381124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IshtarsDream/pseuds/IshtarsDream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Johannes, a Centurion of the Roman Legions, is captured for sacrifice to the Celtic gods – with unexpected results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Holly and the Ivy (Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Holly and the Ivy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3096161) by [Diana Williams (dkwilliams)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dkwilliams/pseuds/Diana%20Williams), [dkwilliams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dkwilliams/pseuds/dkwilliams). 



> This is a remix of The Holly and the Ivy by Diana Williams. What was John's experience of those events?  
> Warning: Non-accurate use of Celtic and Roman deities and rituals.

In twenty years with the Legions, man and boy, Johannes had marched from his father’s home in Gaul across Europe to Asia and Africa and back again. He had risen from being a simple foot soldier to the rank of Centurion of the Fourth Cohort, an honour and a responsibility that he took seriously. He had witnessed birth and dealt death and visited Death’s Door himself before being pulled back to life. He honoured all the gods, served Mars as patron of the Legions, and gave his private devotion to Apollo, the Great Physician he credited with saving his life (though he admitted the Greek physician who had done the work of removing the arrow head from his shoulder, lancing the wound when it suppurated, drawing the poison from it, and treating his fever had helped a bit). He’d pledged that when his time with the Legions was done, he’d lay down his sword forever and study healing himself in repayment of his debt, and in the meantime he learned what he could from the physicians attending the Legions to prove his intent.

But that time would never come. While serving in western Britannia, he was ambushed with some of his men, only three besides himself surviving. Taken captive, they were walked half way across the lands of the Ordovices to Caernarfon, which lay across a strait from the Holy Isle of Ynys Mon. At the end, their captors sold his men as slaves, a not uncommon fate for captives of war. He told them to bide their time, keep their strength, and escape back to the Roman lines if they got a chance.

He let them think he would join them if he could, but he knew he would not – one of their captors told him, with malicious glee, that he was to be sacrificed on the Holy Isle. A large sum had been promised for the capture and safe delivery of an officer such as himself – the sale of his men was just a nice bonus. The Druid priests believed that if a Roman officer was offered to the Gods there, the Island itself would never fall to the Romans.

Johannes thought that the opposite was more likely to happen, though it would be far too late to do him any good. He forbore to warn them, and told himself that he really didn’t mind. As a soldier in the Legions, he had long come to terms with the probability of his own death in combat, and if it brought a successful end to a battle or a campaign, well, that was all fine. This was just a matter of having less choice and more warning.

He was kept prisoner on the Isle for weeks, carefully guarded and treated relatively well, until the day of sacrifice drew nigh. He knew his last night had come when the priests provided him with privacy, warm water and soft cloths to cleanse his body (though they denied him a razor to remove the month’s growth of beard), a good dinner including actual meat to eat, and a goblet of a tolerable mead to drink. The woman who served the meal stayed to lie with him that night, apparently willingly (and enthusiastically, which he was glad of). Despite the lack of a language in common, he brought that matter to a satisfactory conclusion for them both. Twice.

She was gone in the morning when he woke.

He waited calmly until the priests came for him. They dressed him in his own clothes and his armor, including his belt and empty scabbard (they were barbarians, not stupid – they would not risk his cheating their gods of the promised offering by falling on his own sword – which he would have done without hesitation, given a chance). He whispered last prayers to Mars, asking for the strength to die well, and to Apollo, asking for forgiveness of his unfulfilled oath, and allowed the priests’ men to bind his hands and take him along an avenue of standing stones to the place of sacrifice in a sacred grove.

There, however, his nerve broke, as he smelled wood smoke and saw the flicker of a bonfire between the trees. He had heard rumours that the Druids sometimes made sacrifice by burning their victims alive, but he had never believed it. That was too cruel even for barbarians, he had thought. Now he feared he was wrong.

“Oh Gods, no! That is no way for a man to die!” He struggled and shouted in terror and swore at the priests and prayed to every god he knew (and even those he didn’t). “Please, Gods, let me live! At least give me a clean death!”

Overwhelmed by strength of numbers, he was dragged into the grove. On the opposite side of the clearing from the fire was an altar fashioned in the form of a dolmen, with a stone slab balanced upon stone uprights. Ropes wound about the slab to hold the sacrifice in position. That was … a little better. A bit. Still very much Not Good, but what was to be expected.

The priests bound him to the altar with soft ropes on his wrists and ankles. He tested his bonds briefly, but there was no escape. He had not expected any, but he had to try. Then they brought out sharp knives, cutting away his armor and the tunic beneath, laying bare his flesh. He shivered and forced himself to lie still as the blades did their work, the points tracing along his skin and occasionally leaving thin red welts. He was neither embarrassed nor humiliated by his nudity when they were finally done, for he had nothing to be ashamed of and body modesty didn’t survive long in the Legions – he was only horribly exposed and vulnerable.

Piece by piece the leather and linen were fed to the fire and burned, the metal becoming blackened and twisted. Doubtless the flames would receive his body also in the end. He just hoped that he would be released from life before that happened.

There was a brief argument among the priests as his chest was bared and the old scar on his left shoulder, where the Parthian arrow had been cut free and the wound had festered, was revealed. Some seemed to feel that the imperfection made him unfit for sacrifice. The others, including the chief priest, seemed certain that the gods would not care about the blemish – indeed, that the star-shaped mark was a sign that he had been chosen for this role.

While the argument raged, he felt a soft, ghostly touch upon the centre of the star. A touch where the pale, scarred flesh had felt nothing for years. A touch that sent warmth coursing across his body and kindling desire where he had believed desire was finished.

Johannes looked around wildly, seeking the source of the touch. There was no one there, no hand resting on his shoulder, but his skin tingled from the unseen Presence. The Druid priests, for their part, seemed to be oblivious to the Presence but noted his body’s reaction, which they took as a further sign that they should proceed.

Whatever the mysterious Presence was, it came nearer to him, and a brush of warm breath passed over his ear, a deep but melodious voice speaking soft but unknown words. His body, however, seemed to understand. _Be at ease,_ the voice seemed to say. _You will come to no harm._ He drew in a sharp breath and willed himself to stillness again, waiting to see what would happen next.

Meanwhile, the priests continued their preparations. The last of his clothing was cut away, and fragrant oils were brought forward to anoint his head, breast, and feet. Finally, a wreath of holly and ivy was set reverently upon his brow. He felt the sacred mantle of the sacrifice settle heavily upon him, and accepted it, though for his own purposes. _Please, let this be worth something …_

The priests chanted praises in their strange, melodic tongue, and the high priest stepped forward with his wickedly sharp curved blade. Johannes’ breathing came fast and shallow, and his pulse pounded rapidly. He tipped his head back to expose his throat, closed his eyes, and awaited his end.

Instead of the expected searing pain of the blade, a wave of heat and Power washed over him. The chanting of the priests and the crackle of the flames died away, and the clearing was filled with birdsong. The sweet scent of hawthorn blossoms overcame that of smoke, though the season for them was long past. Johannes opened his eyes to look around in wonder, and saw a single tall figure, not one of the priests, standing beside the altar, looking down curiously at him. It was a slim man of unearthly beauty, his skin pale as moonlight and his eyes the ever-changing colours of the sea, with a riot of dark chestnut curls framing his face. He was beyond the years of youth, but wore no beard. He was unarmed and clothed in the simple style of the local people, but in fabric richer than the finest silks. The very air seemed to ripple and glow around him.

It was obvious to Johannes that he was in the presence of a Divinity, though which one, he knew not. He averted his eyes in terror, suddenly aware that he had been staring at One whom it was forbidden for mortals even to look upon. “Forgive me, Lord, for my transgression!” he cried out. If he was very lucky, the God would not strike him down where he stood … er, lay.

The God in question was apparently feeling generous. He rested his hand upon Johannes’ shoulder, the spread of his long fingers easily spanning the star-shaped scar, and spoke soothingly. Again, Johannes did not understand the words, but the meaning seemed clear. _Fear not. You will come to no harm_.

The God placed his fingers under Johannes’ chin, turning his face back toward him. Johannes’ fear faded, to be replaced by simple sadness and resignation as he met the God’s eyes again. “I am dead, then. I could not see a God otherwise. Are you Saturn, come to take me to the Underworld? Mars, granting a last boon to a fellow warrior? Or Apollo, claiming the forfeit for my unpaid debt?”

The God frowned slightly, and then leaned forward to brush a soft kiss over Johannes’ forehead.

“Oh!” Johannes felt a rush of peace from that simple kiss, and he nodded in understanding. “You are Apollo, then, come to claim what is owed. I am yours, my God. Do with me as you will.”

He shifted as much as his bonds would allow, opening himself for the God’s eyes and touch and smiling hesitantly. He was no stranger to intimacy with other men, but had never offered himself up as the receiving partner before. There was no shame in submitting thus to a God. He hoped he was right and this was Apollo, who was reputed to be considerate to his lovers. Mars … was much less so.

The God stared into his eyes for a time contemplatively. Johannes dared not look away; he felt as if the God was looking into the depths of his very soul, and hoped he would be pleased with what he saw there.

Whatever the God was searching for, he seemed to be satisfied. He touched Johannes’ chest gently. “Name?”

“Johannes,” he breathed, his eyes still fixed on the Deity. “My God.”

The God touched his own chest then said, “Sherlock.”

Johannes nodded and repeated the strange sounds of the name. “Sherlock.” It was an odd name, unknown to him, but it made no difference. Gods were known to take other names among foreign peoples, yet they were the same. Whether he was Apollo by another name or some other deity, this God had come to his aid – had revealed himself in person – _touched him_ more than once, even _kissed_ him – and therefore Johannes owed him … everything, really. His body, his service, his life (for he had belatedly begun to realize that he was, somehow, still among the living), his very soul now belonged to this … Sherlock. Whoever and whatever he might be.

The God touched him once more and pronounced his name again, this time shortening it in the local fashion. “John.”

Well, when a God renamed one, who could say no? He nodded again, accepting it. Johannes son of Vetius was gone. In his place was a new man with a new name. “Yes, my God. I am John.”

The God – _Sherlock_ – leaned over and kissed John fully on the lips, sealing his fate.

John gasped as passion roared through him. He had never felt like this, ever, and the fact that a simple kiss left him gasping made him wonder if he’d survive more intimate contact. But there was no way to stop now, and really, it was a vast improvement over what his prospects had been just a short time before. He opened his mouth to Sherlock, permitting him to take whatever he wanted and returning the passion in kind with tongue and teeth and lips. He was sure that he was not meant to be a passive recipient in this, nor that the God would desire it so.

His instincts were to take hold of his partner, to pull him closer, but he had managed to forget that he was bound. He tugged at the loops of rope restraining his wrists and groaned in frustration.

Sherlock pulled back from him for a moment and turned his head to look at the ropes, apparently finding them distasteful. He murmured a single syllable that John couldn’t quite make out, and the ropes were suddenly and cleanly cut, freeing John’s wrists and ankles. Then he leaned back to continue kissing him as if there had been no interruption.

“Do with me as you will,” John repeated, murmuring the words softly against Sherlock’s lips, permitting him, even encouraging him, to do anything and everything he wanted. John lifted his hands to clasp the God’s head, fingers sliding through his curls, pulling him closer and kissing him deeply.

Sherlock shuddered with pleasure and John was inordinately pleased with himself that he could evoke that response in a God. The Deity pulled away from him again, looking around the grove, and then knelt beside one of the fallen priests, rummaging through a basket that had fallen to the ground.

John levered himself up to lean on his elbows so that he could see what Sherlock was doing.

When the God stood again, he had a stoppered flask of the oil that had been used for the anointing in his hand. He grinned almost boyishly as he displayed his find to John.

John returned his grin in response and nodded in approval. The next thing he knew, Sherlock had scrambled up onto the altar to lie next to him. Somewhere in the middle of that act, his clothing just … vanished … and John was more than happy to see that Sherlock wanted this as much as he did. They employed the oil to prepare each other, John reverently anointing Sherlock's ready flesh and Sherlock opening up John’s body to receive him.

By the time they joined together, John had gone well beyond wanting into desperate _needing,_ and he groaned in relief. There was a little of the awkwardness that would happen the first time with anyone, deity notwithstanding, and without even thinking about it John looped his arms around Sherlock’s neck, leaning up to seal their mouths together again, and bracketed the God’s hips with his thighs, hooking one leg around to guide his movements. Strangers as they were to each other, they moved with the ease of long-established comrades. It was amazing. It was incredible. And he wanted it never to end.

But it must, of course. His body tightened around the fullness of the God inside him, and the ecstasy built and built until something like lightning sparked through him and it spilled over. He babbled in all six languages he knew, his muscles tensed and he came in a flood of heat between the God’s body and his own. The God followed a moment later, shouting out John's name in his own pleasure, and that sent a second round of shudders through John’s body.

Afterward, Sherlock recovered quickly and sat up, dangling his feet casually off the edge of the altar. John lay wrecked and sticky on the stone, trying to regain the strength to move. He was going to have bruises all down his back, but it had assuredly been worth it. “Definitely Apollo,” he muttered to himself happily.

The God smiled down at him. “All things change, my John, even the Gods. I have been Lugh, and may be Apollo in the future, but now I am Sherlock. You may one day have Names of your own, but for now you are John, and that is enough.”

Amazed that he could understand every word the God was saying now, John rolled right off the altar stone to prostrate himself in the grass at Sherlock’s feet. “I am your servant, my God,” he pledged. “Command me as you will.”

“I neither want nor require a servant,” said Sherlock, lightly descending from the stone. He reached down one hand. “But I perceive that I have been lonely without knowing that I was. Would you be willing to be my companion? My friend?”

John’s eyes widened at the offer. _Willing?_ How could he _not_? He reached up to clasp the extended hand.

Sherlock drew him up to his feet. “Come with me. _Be_ with me.”

“My God, _yes_!”

Sherlock spoke another word of Power and a light so bright that no mortal could stand it filled the clearing. It was followed by a mighty clap of thunder that shook the earth and split the altar in twain. When the echo of it faded, the clearing was empty and still, except for the breeze that sighed among the trees and teased the robes of the fallen priests.


End file.
